


Ithakas (Sean Murphy, This is Your Life)

by natlet



Category: Oz (1997)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-22
Updated: 2010-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A history, of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ithakas (Sean Murphy, This is Your Life)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillingstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/gifts).



> For Trillingstar in [Oz Free-For-All 2010](http://community.livejournal.com/oz_wishing_well/24413.html). I promised you a drabble. I'm still not sure what happened.
> 
> I've taken some liberties with the commonly accepted timeline here - please forgive me!
> 
> Title appropriated from [Ithaka by C. P. Cavafy](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20456)

[1955]

The third Murphy baby was born early on a Monday morning, just past midnight, late October. He came out two weeks early, underweight and eerily silent, complete with ten fingers, ten toes, and a shock of dark hair; when the doctor held him up he blinked at his mother, opened his mouth, and cried for the next thirty-six hours straight.

They named him Sean, after his father's father, who had done basically the same thing for all of his fifty-eight years.

*

[1966]

On the first day of sixth grade, he fell.

Slipped, and went into the creek that ran along the far side of the playground, through the stand of scraggly trees they'd discovered could keep them shielded from the teachers. They were waiting for the bell to ring, him and Michael and Joey Fancetti from down the street passing around a cigarette Joey had stolen from his mother, when they'd heard a crash, a rustling in the bushes, too close to be a coincidence or an accident.

Fuck, Joey said, sharp and low and with real concern in his voice, and he reached past Sean to flick the cigarette into the creek; maybe Joey bumped him, or maybe he jerked back and lost his footing, but however it happened he barely even registered he was in the water until he was hauling himself back onto dry land, dripping and disoriented and mortified, trying to play it off like it was no big deal even as his socks squished between his toes.

He swiped a hand across his forehead, blinked through soggy eyelashes. Joey was holding back a grin, Michael was trying not to look worried, and the kid - not a playground aide or a teacher or his little sister but just some kid who'd come through the bushes, about Sean's age, skinny and awkward and clueless - was looking right at Sean.

Their gazes met, held. He had the biggest, bluest eyes Sean had ever seen, and his first, instinctive thought was _He's not from around here._ Stupid thought, because of course he wasn't, Sean had never seen him in school before, never seen him at church or at the supermarket and there just weren't kids his age in town he didn't know, that wasn't the way it worked -

"Sorry," the kid said, and Sean would have sworn he hadn't even noticed Michael or Joey, was talking just to Sean, "Sorry, I didn't - " and then he sort of shrunk back into the trees and was gone.

Michael walked Sean home to change, and made excuses about their tardiness to the principal, and in a rare moment of brotherly compassion had never mentioned Sean's headlong tumble - not the one into the water, or the one he wouldn't recognize for another thirty some-odd years - again.

*

He set himself up, took a shot, missed - again. "Son of a," Sean muttered under his breath, casting a wary eye toward the front window - he was pretty sure Ma couldn't hear him from inside the house, but he still didn't have himself all the way convinced she couldn't read lips. He scooped up the basketball as it rolled back down the driveway toward him, spun it between his fingers, let it bounce up off the blacktop a couple times before he sent it flying again.

No good. "Motherfucker!" He let the ball roll past him, into the street. Goddamn thing could stay there, for all he cared. Basketball was Michael's thing anyway - Sean was too stocky, nowhere near tall enough -

"You're too tense," a voice said behind him.

He turned. The skinny kid from the playground stood just on the edge of the Murphy driveway, basketball suspended between his fingers. "Your shoulders are bad. You're making it go all jerky. That's why you keep missing." The kid sniffled a little, balanced the ball on one hand, swiped the other underneath his nose.

Sean folded his arms across his chest, frowned at the kid. "What, like you could do better?" The kid shrugged, stood there until Sean sighed, waved him toward the net mounted on the garage. "Well, come on, then."

The kid smiled briefly. He dribbled the ball a few steps up, then caught it and sent it neatly through the center of the net in one long, smooth motion.

Sean did his best not to stare. The kid was all elbows and knees, Sean couldn't understand how he walked without tripping himself, how did he - "Do it again," he said, and though he watched closer this time, he still couldn't see what the trick was.

"You gotta believe it," the kid said, tossing the ball in Sean's direction. He caught it against his chest, cradled it there. "Tell yourself it's going in the net, and it's gonna go in the net."

Sean snorted. "Yeah, fat chance."

The kid shrugged again. "I'm just trying to help," he said. There was something false in his voice, something affected and defensive, and it made Sean feel just the tiniest bit guilty. "Keep missing, see if I care."

He stared down the kid for a long minute, then sighed and turned back toward the basket. _It's going in_, he thought; he felt silly, so he thought it again, harder this time. _In the basket. In._

"Looser," the kid said from behind him.

Sean rolled his shoulders, thought _In_ one last time, and let the ball fly. It bounced off the backboard, then off the rim, but then it sank through the net. When Sean turned back, the kid was grinning.

"See? Told you. You're pretty good."

"Thanks." Though he didn't think so, really, considering he was standing here taking pointers from some AV Club reject.

"I'm Tim," the kid said, holding his hand out.

"Sean," he said; then, inexplicably, "I think my Ma's making burgers for dinner, you wanna come in?"

Tim grinned again, and this time his whole face lit up. Holy shit, Sean thought. His eyes were really blue.

*

[1967]

"He didn't _do_ anything," Tim said stubbornly. "He was with me, not them. He was just trying to get the ball back. We didn't even know those guys were back there."

The playground monitor didn't look too convinced. Sean tried not to squirm, tried to keep himself still and steady and calm - like Tim somehow managed to stay, even though this was bad, this was really bad, they could get expelled, the school would probably call Pop at work and then Sean would be in a whole world of shit - tried not to notice how Michael and Joey Fancetti were glaring at him. Sean kept his eyes on the ground, said Yes Ma'am and No Ma'am in his best talking-to-grown-ups voice, and he didn't let himself believe it had worked until he watched Michael and Joey and the playground monitor disappear into the building.

Tim punched him in the shoulder. "See?" he said. "I told you. I got your back."

"Yeah," said Sean. "Thanks."

Michael didn't speak to him for a week, and after that he called them "SeanandTim," all slurred together with an exaggerated eye-roll and that scathing contempt particular to slightly older brothers, but it never bothered Sean in the way he was pretty sure it was meant to.

*

[1970]

"Mary Ellen White, from Biology."

"No," Tim said. "She wears all that weird glitter stuff and her hair's all - "

"Okay," Sean said. He drew two careful lines on his graph paper, spaced numbers along its axes. "What about Debbie Green, she's friends with my sister - "

"No way am I taking your sister's friend to the Homecoming dance, Sean, that's just cruel."

"Hey, I'm not the one who's got some kinda problem with every girl in town," Sean said. "There's uh... Patty, what's her name, Moore. She doesn't dress weird." He plotted a curve, drew his pencil along it.

Tim shook his head. "I can't take Patty, she's best friends with Nancy."

"Nancy was - ?"

"The one who hated me."

He stared at Tim, kept his expression carefully blank, clueless. "Which one?"

"The blonde, with the - oh, fuck you." He chucked his pen at Sean; it went wide and Sean couldn't keep back his laughter. "Not all of my exes hate me."

"Really? Cuz the ones I talk to - "

"Donna loved me," Tim said triumphantly. "Donna would get back together with me in a second if I asked her - "

"You dated her for nine hours, a year ago, and you dumped her because she was _crazy_ \- "

"Anyway," Tim said, glaring at Sean hard enough that he almost started laughing again. "I'm not asking Patty."

"I'm about out of ideas, buddy," Sean said.

"How about you dump Brenda, so I'm not the only loser without someone to dance with."

"I would if I could, believe me," Sean said. "Been trying to get out of this thing for weeks." He paperclipped the graph paper to his worksheet, slid them both into a folder. "Hey, what about that new girl? I think her name is Kim or something, don't you have Geography with her?"

Tim shrugged. He was suddenly real interested in the textbook on his lap. "I guess," he said. "She'll probably just think I'm some kind of creep, some guy she hasn't even met yet coming up to her and asking her out, out of nowhere."

"Hey, hey. She'll think you're a guy who knows a good thing when he sees it, is what she'll think."

Tim laughed. "Yeah, okay," he said, but when Sean saw him in the cafeteria the next day he was talking to the new girl, who was actually pretty cute, and by the way Tim was smiling Sean figured he'd found his date. He shook his head as he chucked the remains of his lunch into the garbage can, headed for the library. He just hoped Tim wouldn't fuck it up before Friday night.

*

[1972]

"You should take it," Sean said quietly, after a long time.

Tim made a face. "I dunno," he said. "I don't think I wanna live in California."

"Nobody said you gotta live there, Timmy." He laid his hands out, palms down on the table, one on either side of the letter. "But it's one of the top programs in the country. And they wanna give you a full scholarship. A free ride." He tried to ignore whatever it was in his chest that twisted and went tight when he said the words, tried to keep his face calm and blank. Tried again to remind himself this wasn't about him, not in any way.

Tim was silent for a long time. He put his elbows on the table, rested his chin in both palms, stared at the letter. Sean watched his eyes trace the seal at the top, the signature near the bottom in blue ink. Finally, he sighed. "I'm an idiot if I don't take this, aren't I."

It wasn't quite a question. Sean forced a smile, and said "Well, you're an idiot most of the time, anyway," and when Tim smiled back he knew it would be okay.

*

[1973]

Sean waited as long as he could - through Christmas, through New Year's, through the impossibly long week in between - but finally, he broke down, exactly like he'd tried to convince himself he wasn't going to, and ended up on Tim's mom's doorstep, shoulders hunched against the cold. "Sean Murphy," Mrs. McManus said when she opened the door, trying - and failing, spectacularly - to hide the surprise in her voice. "Hi, honey, come on in, how are you? How's your mother doing?"

He followed her inside, sat at the kitchen table (and it was weird, he thought, how this room where he'd spent so many evenings had become something he could barely recognize in just a couple months), accepted her offer of milk and cookies, still warm from the oven, even though he was really too old, he wasn't a kid any more. He told Mrs. McManus that Ma was doing fine, he was sure she would love to go shopping some time, that she sent her love, even though she hadn't; he tried to ignore the cacophony of footsteps and bangs from upstairs, tried not to jump every time he heard a door open - did a pretty good job of it, he thought, right up until he heard footsteps on he stairs and then Tim was skidding through the doorway, "Hey, Mom, we're going - "

He froze when he saw Sean; just for a second, but long enough for Sean to notice, long enough for him to think _oh, shit._ Tim looked good - really good. He'd lost weight, and he had the ragged beginnings of a beard scattered along his jawline. "Sean," Tim said, "Hey, it's good to see you," and he came across the kitchen and hugged Sean, hard, arms around his neck.

"Hi, Timmy." He was warm and solid, familiar against Sean's chest, and he let himself hug Tim back, just for a second, one hand pressed flat between Tim's shoulderblades. It was a little weird, a little too much like four months ago, when they'd stood at the end of Tim's driveway, his parents and all his shit crammed into the car, and Tim had promised to keep in touch, except Sean had known it was a lie before he'd even said it. Tim smelled almost the same as he had then, which was sort of weird too - new cologne, but the same cheap shampoo and underneath it something richer, something he still recognized in his gut as Tim. He pressed his face into the curve of Tim's neck and breathed deep, thought for a second that maybe he'd just stay there, until someone in the doorway cleared their throat and he looked up over Tim's shoulder and saw -

"Uh, Sophie, this is Sean," Tim said, pulling away, stepping back toward the doorway, slinging his arm around the cute little redhead who had appeared there. "Sean, this is my girlfriend, Sophie."

Because of course, of course she was his girlfriend - Sean wondered if she was the first, or the third, or the seventh or eighth one since Tim had left Attica. "Hi," he said, and he shook Sophie's hand, and he didn't let it bother him that he was just Sean, not my best friend Sean or even my friend Sean, just some kid Tim knew, nobody important.

"We, uh," said Tim. "We were gonna head out to Buffalo, maybe see if we could catch a show or something." Pause, just long enough to make Sean's stomach do a sick little flip. "You can come with us, if you want."

Yeah, right. "Nah, it's okay," Sean said. "I just wanted to say hi. See how you were doing."

Tim frowned, like that hadn't been the answer he was expecting. Sean wondered what the fuck he _had_ expected, after ignoring the guy who was supposed to be his best friend for six months - he'd been in town for almost three weeks, for fuck's sake, and he hadn't even called. He lived around the corner. It wasn't like it would take an effort. "Okay," Tim said, mouth twisted. "I guess I'll see you around, then."

Sean nodded. "Yeah. I'll see you." He smiled at Tim's mom. "Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. McManus," he said, and he turned and left.

"I'll call you," Tim yelled down the hall after him.

Sean didn't answer; he doubted it. He closed the front door behind him and headed across the lawn, toward the shortcut they'd worn down through the stand of trees on the back of old Mr. Jones' property. He'd taken it on the way over, and he tried to follow his own footprints back to the gap in the hedge, but it was snowing now and the gap had grown over and he couldn't find his way through. Fingers numb, arms all scratched up, he jammed his hands in his pockets and trudged back toward the road, and home.

*

It wasn't like Sean had expected him to, but Tim didn't call. He didn't call over spring break, either - Sean never knew for sure if he even came home - and by the summer, Sean was settled into the Academy in Albany, reminding himself on a daily basis there were some things he would never be able to change.

*

[1977]

He was already running late - third time this month, his supe up at the prison was going to skin him alive, and that's if he was lucky - but when the phone rang, Sean paused in the doorway, then sighed and stomped back across the apartment. Probably his Ma, calling to make sure he hadn't forgotten about Sunday dinner, but she was getting older and he just wanted to make sure. "Hello?"

"Sean?"

He froze, knuckles going white around the receiver. It had been - years, three, almost four, Christ. He had a job, an apartment - Tim was part of another world, another life, something he'd thought he'd left behind. Something he'd thought he'd had to leave behind. It was hard to breathe. "Hi."

"I - I hope this is okay," Tim said. He sounded so fucking tired. "Your mom gave me your number."

Sean stared hard out the window. "Yeah, I - it's fine."

"I'm sorry I never called," Tim said, and he was - Sean could hear the regret humming through the phone lines, almost more clearly than he heard Tim's voice, and fuck him for that, because if he'd felt bad he should have _called_, for fuck's sake. "It's just - I don't even have time to think out here, between work and school and - " He took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. Sean waited, let the silence stretch out. "I'll be back home soon," Tim said, finally. "I - we should get together. I'd like to see you."

There was a distinct gap between the time he opened his mouth and when his voice came out. "I'm late for work," he said. "But, uh - okay."

Tim laughed a little, but it sounded more nervous than anything. "Great!" he said. "Great, uh - give me a call next week sometime, I'll be at my mom's house after Monday."

"Okay." He barely heard himself through the sound of his own heart beating, the roar of blood surging through his head.

"I - I missed you, Sean."

He hung the phone up, thought _fuck you_ at it carefully, deliberately. He let the door slam behind him on the way out. No way was he calling the motherfucker back.

*

In the end, he only made it until Thursday before he picked up the phone. All things considered, he thought that was pretty good.

*

[1979]

They drove down to the Jersey Shore near the end of April. Whether it was in celebration of Tim's twenty-second birthday or Sean's first almost-new car was the subject of a sporadic but heated debate almost all the way to the island.

"If it was your twenty-first, you might have a case," Sean said, in what he thought was a real reasonable tone of voice. "Eighteen, you might have an argument. But twenty-two? That's just another year older, my friend."

"It's an even number," Tim said. "It's - " He broke off, frowned.

"See? Twenty-two ain't shit." He craned his neck, glancing over his shoulder before he passed a slow-moving station wagon. "Check the map, we getting off this highway any time soon? I gotta piss like you wouldn't believe."

It was too early in the season for tourists, which had been the idea; they spent most of a week chucking a frisbee back and forth on the nearly-deserted beach, spending nights in Sean's car parked in a series of lots with dark, isolated corners. On the last night - they'd only given Sean five days off, no matter how much he'd begged and pleaded and offered to work graveyard for a month, two months - it rained, and Sean stayed awake, listening to the frantic drumbeat cadence of drops on the windshield and to Tim's slow, even breaths.

"Happy birthday, Timmy," he whispered into the chilled air. He was twenty-two, after all.

*

[1980]

"You sure you got everything?" Sean asked, tugging one last time on the nylon ropes holding Tim's mattress to the roof rack.

"Checked, double checked, and triple checked," Tim said, slamming the trunk closed.

"Hope so. I'm telling you right now, I'm not driving eight hours to bring you your toothbrush."

"Not tonight, at least."

Sean laughed. "Not any night, my friend." He turned away from the car, looked at Tim, felt the smile melt off his face. "You need me, you call me," he said. "Any time, Tim. For anything. I mean it."

Tim at least tried to smile. "Even for a toothbrush?"

Sean shrugged. "Pretty sure they've got more of those in the city, but yeah."

For a second, there was something strange in Tim's eyes, something small and sad and far away; but it was gone before Sean could recognize it, and Tim was stepping forward, pulling him into a close, tight hug. "I'm gonna miss you," he said into Sean's neck, the words warm on the skin just above the collar of Sean's shirt.

He curved his hand around the point of Tim's shoulder and reminded himself it wasn't a promise. "I'll miss you too, Tim."

And he did - started as he slapped the roof of the car, watched the tail lights disappear around a corner, and kept it up; even after it had been years, he remembered, even when all he wanted to do was forget.

 

*

[1982]

He married Caroline on a Sunday afternoon, third week in April. Sean really should have known better - he could remember more than one Mother's Day blizzard - but she was from Virginia and when she told him (bathrobe and slippers in the tiny kitchen of their apartment, her long fingers curved around an oversized mug) she'd always had her heart set on an outdoor wedding, he couldn't help but take the chance. His mother threw a fit, but he rented a pavilion at the state park anyway; the weather held out and he put the ring on Caroline's finger in a rare moment of sunshine and relative warmth, in front of their parents and God and everyone, kissed her with the wind wrapping the train of her dress around his legs and the sounds of the river echoing up from the gorge.

He was twenty-six, and he was sure he loved her.

*  
[1984]

And he did, for a while; he loved how she'd curl into him in bed on chilly mornings, he loved how she'd almost always burn the toast. He loved the way she'd get distracted halfway through one activity or another, leaving a hairbrush or a spatula abandoned in some bizarre place, a schizophrenic domestic scavenger hunt laid out for him, a trail he'd follow at the end of the day from the door to wherever she might be, absorbed in a book or an off-the-cuff batch of cookies. He loved her long dark hair and her habit of reusing the same coffee cup for a week straight, he loved how she'd wear her bathrobe well into the afternoon, he loved everything about her, everything about their life together, right up until the day he woke up and discovered he didn't, any more.

*

[1985]

She never finished a goddamn thing - the place was littered with half-read novels, abandoned sketches, a whole cabinet full of crafting supplies for hobbies that never took off. She was restless in bed, rolling and shifting and sighing, and he hadn't slept a full night in weeks. Her hair clogged the drain in the bathtub, littered the sink, clung to every surface in the house. Mold grew in the bottoms of her abandoned coffee mugs, and most days he doubted she'd even thought about getting dressed.

"Some days, I don't know why I married you," she'd say. It was silly and a little cute, a shared joke - until one day, when he wasn't paying attention, it became something else.

He would still watch her sleep, in the mornings, sometimes, when he had a few extra minutes before he had to leave for work. From the doorway to their bedroom he could see her sprawled out across their bed, one arm stretched into the warm space he'd left, her face relaxed. More often than not he'd catch himself trying not to breathe, so he wouldn't wake her. Sometimes, in those moments, he was almost sure he was still in love with her, the way he had been at the beginning, the way he was starting to realize he wasn't any more.

Later - after the fighting, after the lawyers, after paperwork and paperwork and more paperwork, after an afternoon filled with moving vans and Caroline's older brother standing guard on the front porch, like Sean was something to be guarded against, on his own goddamn property - later, he wandered alone through the house, through this place where they were supposed to have made a home together, and tried to figure out where he'd gone wrong. In the kitchen, most of the cabinet doors stood open; he closed them carefully, one by one, noticing every cup and plate and piece of silverware she'd taken with her. When he was done he stood in the center of the room, listened to the silence echoing around him and felt her absence like it was something physical, a new organ he'd grown inside his chest, something he'd carry around forever.

*

He never told Tim about her.

Tim never asked.

*

[1986]

Sean jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket as he jogged up the walk toward the house. He was used to how winter came on like air breaks, sixty to zero in a handful of hours, but this was out of line, even for October. He wished he'd remembered his hat.

For a few seconds after he rang the doorbell, he was frozen, trapped in some weird flashback, some hallucination - himself at thirteen, at sixteen, right here on these steps, fidgeting and waiting for the door to open. If he'd been a different man he might have wished he'd gone back in time, wished Tim's mom would open the door and offer him cookies. But he wasn't, and Mrs. McManus probably wasn't going to be baking any more cookies and Tim probably - he took a deep breath, forced himself to smile a little.

The door opened, and Sean knew he hadn't gone back in time, but he almost would have believed he'd gone forward. Tim looked old, older than Sean had ever imagined him looking - Christ, he'd aged fifteen years since Sean had seen him last. Wrinkles creased his forehead, branched out from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were dim and he seemed slow and it hurt Sean just to look at him, just to see him like this.

"Hey," he said, as gently as he could. "I - my mom told me. I figured I'd come by."

"Hi," Tim said. "Thanks." His voice was low and flat and he didn't look at Sean when he said it, which maybe hurt more than anything because it wasn't Tim. Tim always looked, loved seeing what his words did to people, even the silly innocuous ones, and Sean wanted to grab him, wanted to make him look, wanted some kind of reassurance that his friend was still in there, somewhere.

He cleared his throat. "Can I, uh," he said, "Can I come in? It's kinda cold out here."

Tim did look up, then; he met Sean's gaze and Sean could almost see something break, something fall, and he was reaching out even as Tim stepped forward. Tim's shoulders shook and he pushed his face hard into the collar of Sean's jacket and Sean wrapped his arms around him, held on. "It's okay," he said against the soft skin in front of Tim's ear, just loud enough for Tim to hear him. "I'm here," and Tim sort of nodded and fisted his hands in the front of Sean's shirt and Sean decided he could stand the cold, just for a little while longer.

 

[1991]

He was expecting Tim's call.

Tim had managed to keep to a pretty regular schedule, this time - every other Friday, around lunchtime, except when one of them had to work, and Sean would never admit to waiting but he was hanging around with enough intent that when his doorbell rang, he frowned at it in annoyance. He didn't know who he was expecting, as he worked the lock and pulled the door open, but it sure as hell wasn't Tim.

"I was in the area," Tim said, half a smile and a shrug, something in his eyes Sean couldn't place. "Thought I would stop by, see if you wanted to have a beer."

It was enough of a shock that for a few seconds, all he could do was blink. "Hi," he said finally, "Yeah, I - come in." He followed Tim down the narrow hallway to the kitchen, trying not to trace the narrow lines of his body under his clothes. It had only been a year or two since he'd seen Tim, but it looked like he'd lost weight, like there was barely enough of him left to hold his bones together, and now Sean recognized the worry Tim was carrying around, the fear. He'd always been a little bit high-strung but paralyzing anxiety wasn't really his style.

"What brings you back upstate?" he asked, opening two cans and handing one to Tim.

"Just checking some things out for work," Tim said, sort of vaguely. "You know, observing, conferencing, that sort of thing," and then he changed the subject, asked about Sean's mom as they settled in to watch the baseball game - another pair of items on the rapidly growing list of weird things Tim was doing. Sean answered automatically, half-wondering who this alien was, and what they had done with his best friend.

"Have you ever known something you were going to do was really crazy, and done it anyway?" the alien wearing Tim's skin asked, three beers and two innings later.

"Let you in my house, 'bout an hour ago."

"No," Tim said. "I mean life-changing crazy."

Sean frowned at him. "You trying to tell me something, Timmy?" he asked. "You joining a cult?"

Tim laughed. "Yeah, the cult of the holy federal grant," he said. "No, I just - you know what, forget it, I was just talking."

Later, Sean watched him fidget and snore on the couch, and hoped it would be the good kind of life-changing crazy, at least. Tim had sure seen his share of the bad.

*

[1997]

The nurse at the reception desk asked him what his relationship to the patient was, and for a long time all he could do was blink at her.

Sean had heard about the riot at work - in the goddamn lunchroom, of all places, "Oswald" catching his ear and the rest grabbing him somewhere in the chest - and left right from the prison, double shift he'd just worked be damned. He'd gotten as close to Oswald as he could - not close enough, not nearly close enough - and when the fear and exhaustion had finally taken over he'd slept in his truck, windows open, waking at every sound, every gust of wind. He was sore and tired, sick to his stomach from days of hovering on edge, and he tried to form words but they wouldn't come. _We've been friends since we were kids, we talk on the phone once or twice a week, I know his dreams._ All he could think to say was everything, he's everything - but he couldn't say that, fuck, he knew he couldn't say that, he had to say Tim was a friend, a distant relative -

"He's all I got," was what finally came out, shaky and small and in a voice Sean was sure couldn't be his own. He was never sure why it was enough, why it made the nurse decide to let him in - but it was, and she did. He followed her spotless white shoes down a grey-tiled hallway, kept his eyes down, prayed he wouldn't see anyone, please don't let anyone see him here.

When he saw Tim, his first reaction was _no._ That wasn't Tim, lying there in the middle of that huge white bed, looking so thin and drawn and vulnerable - it couldn't be. He took a hesitant step forward, two. The nurse was gone, vanished into the fray outside the room. Sean barely noticed. He rested his hand first on the edge of the bed, then reached out, traced one finger up the back of Tim's hand to his wrist, carefully avoiding the IV tube taped to his skin. Tim didn't wake up, but he was warm, and if Sean watched closely he could see him breathing.

He pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed, sat down heavily. He'd found Tim, and Tim was alive. It wasn't much, but after the week he'd been having, it was enough.

*

[1999]

"Metzger told me," Tim said, "to think about who I wanted standing next to me if there was ever trouble in Em City."

Sean laughed. It wasn't funny - even days later, Tim's voice humming with indignation, the recounted conversation made something cold and unpleasant buzz its way up the back of his neck - but maybe it would defuse Tim a little bit. "Guy sounds like a class act," Sean said. "Get him transferred to another unit. You can do that, can't you?"

"Oh, I'm gonna do better than that," Tim said, and Sean thought oh, shit. "In fact, that's why I called you. I, uh - I thought you could come out and do an interview, at least. I don't want to make this mistake again, I need someone I can rely on."

Sure as hell sounded like he did, but Sean hesitated, and not only because he'd seen enough of Oswald on the news to make him wary of the place. "I dunno, Tim," he said carefully. "I been out here a long time. Lot of people count on me. I can't just - "

"Sean, _I'm_ counting on you."

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, let it out slowly. "Okay," he said. "May I delay my appearance before you until Thursday or so, your highness, or do you demand my presence - "

"Oh, fuck you," Tim said, but Sean could hear him smiling. "Yeah, I'll see you on Thursday. Come early, I'll get us in to see the Warden as soon as he gets here."

*

[2002]

"So," Sean said, careful to direct it toward his half-empty beer, and not toward Tim. "Your ex-wife, huh."

Silence, for a long time. Sean started to think maybe he'd said the wrong thing, but then Tim sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, let it fall down to rest on the bar, curling long fingers around his own bottle. "Yeah," he said, in a short, clipped voice. "It was years ago, when I was working downstate. It was - it was passionate and intense and it was over fast." He brought the bottle halfway to his lips, then paused. "It was over before it even really got started, the more I think about it." He took a pull off the bottle, still wouldn't meet Sean's eyes. "We were married nine months. Eleven, if you count the two when I lived out of a suitcase in a hotel room. This is the first time I've seen her since, and I'm not - handling it."

He looked up, and Sean almost wanted to look away from what was on Tim's face - or what wasn't. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Tim this - bare, this open - which was weird, because at least half of Tim's problem was that he was _too_ open, every fleeting thought and emotion direct from his brain to the world, no filter whatsoever. But this was something different. Someone different. He'd never met this Tim before.

"Does that about cover it?" Tim asked, quietly. "Is that what you wanted to know?" He sounded tired, broke down, like he'd lost a battle he'd been fighting too long, and Sean did look away then, couldn't hold that flat, worn gaze.

"More than," he said, to his beer again. "I was really just wondering if that's why I didn't hear from you for a couple years, there." Tim hadn't fallen for the dumb hack routine in years - hadn't ever really bought it, not all the way, not the way Sean could get most people to buy it, and Sean wasn't sure why he fell back on it now.

But Tim made a noise that was almost a laugh, and when he spoke Sean could hear the smile in his voice. "Yeah," Tim said. "That's why you didn't hear from me for a while."

For the first time in all the years they'd known each other, he caught himself opening his mouth to tell Tim about Caroline and he tried to stop himself but - "It turns into your whole life," and he could feel Tim looking at him but he didn't stop, knew it was too late to stop. "I thought about it and I thought about it and I couldn't figure out where I'd fucked up. Because I knew it was my problem, I knew it wasn't her fault. It had to be something I did wrong." He held Tim's gaze, took a long pull off his beer. "Wasn't my fault or her fault or anyone's fault. People change, Tim. We get together for a little while, maybe even years, decades - but then we go our own ways. Nothing any of us could have done about it."

"Sean, you - Jesus, you never - I'm so sorry, I - "

He shot Tim his best serious look. "Hey, hey. We're here to drown your failed marriage, not mine," and he could tell Tim didn't want to - he was sitting up straight again, clear-eyed, the questions buzzing through his head almost visible - but he backed off.

"I don't think I should drive," Tim said in the parking lot.

Sean knew he hadn't drank that much, and he almost questioned it, but when he opened his mouth what came out was, "Stay at my place tonight, I'll drive you in in the morning."

Tim nodded, but he was quiet as they walked to Sean's truck, as Sean turned out of the parking lot, as they headed through the nearly-deserted town, past dimmed storefronts and the neon sign that had been flickering since Christmas in the parking lot of Tops; but Sean was used to it, was used to Tim going quiet on him, and he just drove, hummed along with the radio under his breath.

"I loved her," Tim said as they climbed the steps up to Sean's apartment.

He dug the key out of his pocket. "Your ex?"

Tim nodded.

"Of course you did," he said. He held the door, tried not to watch too close as Tim shuffled past him into the darkness. He followed, flicking a light on in the kitchen, went to the refrigerator for a couple beers before he thought better of it and started the coffee pot instead.

"No," Tim said from the doorway, and Sean almost dropped the mugs he was pulling from a cupboard - he'd figured Tim would have settled himself on the couch to sulk already. "I mean, I really loved her, Sean. I sacrificed for her, I tried to change for her, I would have given her anything - "

"First off, that's all bullshit," Sean said. "And second, that ain't love. That's desperation."

It came out a little harsher than he really meant it, and he busied himself wiping imaginary drops of water off the countertop. "You think I'm desperate?" Tim said, finally.

He counted to ten before he even thought about answering. Tim had this way of - he twisted everything until it revolved around him, until he was the turbulent little center of the universe, and sometimes it was just so - but the thing was, he was right enough of the time that calling him on it never did any good. "I didn't say that, did I?"

"No," Tim said. "You didn't," and then he was quiet again, long enough that it almost started to get strange, long enough that Sean finally cracked, glanced over his shoulder. Tim was propped up in the doorway, leaning against the clean white molding, starkly visible against the darkened room behind him. He had his arms folded across his chest, fingers drumming against his own elbows, face all creased and real far away, but when Sean looked at him their gazes met, held.

The world didn't turn over, his life didn't change, nothing spun or crashed or fell down. All he saw was Tim, close-fitting sweater and jeans, just a little bit of a flush on his cheeks - familiar, comfortable - for all their stumbles and falls and false starts, basically the same person he'd been looking at since sixth grade. Maybe he was a little heavier now, he definitely had less hair, but Sean could still see him at eleven, lanky and awkward through a haze of creek water, he could see him at sixteen, all half-baked machismo with his arm around Kim Delaney at Homecoming. He could see Tim at twenty-three, wide-eyed and unafraid, he could see him at the wedding he hadn't been to, promising to cherish his bride until the end of time. Sean's life had guideposts in it, times that stood out in his memory, that had changed him - a rush of water up his nose, nights spent in his car, a lost love, risks he had to take - and in them and between them, before and after, was Tim.

He felt - enlightened, stupid, hot and cold and completely different and exactly the same and he was frozen, struck dumb - the answer was so obvious he'd never thought to ask himself the question.

"You never judged me," Tim said, quietly. He took a few steps forward, put his hands down on the table, and Sean wanted to look away, couldn't handle him that close, not just then - but he turned around and faced Tim instead. "Pete, Gloria - shit, even Leo had something to say about my - my dating habits." Tim frowned a little, like even he knew that wasn't quite the right phrase. "But not you."

Sean shrugged. "None of my business who you sleep with," he said.

"Of course it's your business, Sean, Jesus," Tim said. "You're my best friend, you're - " He cut himself off there, bit his lip.

"What?" Sean asked. "I'm what, Tim?" He was pretty sure he knew, pretty sure he'd figured out where this was going, but he wanted to hear Tim say it. Just once.

Tim was quiet for a long time. He folded his hands together, stared at the floor like maybe if he waited long enough it would open up and swallow him whole. "My whole life," he said finally, slowly, "I've had - problems, in relationships. All my relationships. I meet someone, everything's great for a while, and then... it's not right any more. It's like I make people crazy. Like they just can't - like they have to escape. Ellie left me. Gloria stopped seeing me." He laughed a little, shook his head. "Christ, Diane left the whole goddamn continent. Everybody left me." He looked up, met Sean's eyes. "But not you," and Jesus, maybe he didn't want to hear Tim say anything, maybe he wanted Tim to shut up, get out and pretend they'd never been here. "You stayed. And I can't figure out what the difference is."

He would never say it to Tim's face but at least half of Tim's problem was that he'd watched too many goddamn movies. Sometimes, Sean thought he really believed some of the crazy ideas he'd gotten into his head - was pretty sure that Tim, with his serial bed-hopping and his constantly broken heart, was waiting on some kind of spark, a soaring dramatic soundtrack, some kind of sign that he'd gotten it right.

But the problem, Sean was slowly coming to realize, was that this was life; there was no soundtrack, and the spark was a myth. Sean was starting to figure out - and he wished he'd figured it out thirty years earlier, before he was sagging and wrinkled and maybe past the point where it even mattered - that the spark was more like some well-banked coals, that the only soundtrack was a stupid joke, one that brought a laugh at just the right time.

"We drove each other crazy right from the beginning, was the difference," he said; enough of a smile that it could be blown off as a joke, the smallest hope that Tim wouldn't.

Tim was wearing that sad screwed-up expression, that faraway look that meant he was puzzling something out, and Sean just waited; watched him, let him work through it, and when Tim came back to himself, took a deep breath and looked up, Sean was ready.

"Sean, I think - "

He was moving before the words were out, coming across the kitchen, coming close. "Shut up, Tim," he said, and Tim did. Sean reached out, rested his fingers along Tim's jaw, rubbed his thumb across Tim's chin. The hair there was softer than he'd expected, and Tim shivered when Sean touched him, and he couldn't stop himself any more - he leaned in and kissed Tim, softly, and just once. Tim's lips were warm, and a little chapped, and his beard scratched against Sean's face - but he sighed into Sean's mouth and pressed his palms flat against Sean's chest and it took everything Sean had to pull away, but he needed to see -

For a couple seconds after, he kept his eyes closed, almost afraid if he opened them everything would be - different, ruined, over - but when he finally got up the courage to look, all he saw was the same old Tim.

And goddamn, he'd been in love with him all along.

"Sean," Tim whispered into the air between them. He was close enough the word was still warm when it brushed across Sean's skin and it felt like electricity, like fire. Sean shivered, the tremor working its way through his whole body.

"I know," he whispered back, "I know," and he kissed Tim again. With purpose, if not with any kind of finesse - his nose crushed against Tim's cheekbone and the angles were wrong and Tim's hands were cold where they pressed against his neck, along the collar of his shirt - but it was okay, because they were _Tim's_ hands, and _Jesus_ \- He stumbled backward, fingers tight on Tim's hips, dragging him along until the edge of the counter dug into his waist. Tim followed, settled his body along Sean's, sighing into his mouth. A knee pressed forward as Tim's tongue swept over his lower lip and he moaned, let himself fall loose, open.

Tim must have sensed it somehow - suddenly his hands were everywhere, slipping under Sean's shirt, cool fingers on his stomach. One hand sweeping up his chest, the other creeping into his waistband, and it was - He broke away, gasping, brought up his hands to cup Tim's face, stroked his thumbs down to the point of his chin. Tim was flushed, eyes shining, and as Sean watched he licked his lips, smiled.

It was the little things that got him. The particular blue of Tim's eyes. Sean's own fingers against each painfully familiar line of his face. The shadow in the corner of his mouth. He'd been looking at Tim his whole life, and he had no idea why he hadn't seen any of it sooner.

"Sean, don't..." Tim said slowly. "This is - I think we should - "

He almost laughed. "Yeah," he said, "This is, and I think we should too," and he kissed Tim again - and not just to shut him up, though it was sort of a nice side-effect. One he'd have to make sure to take advantage of in the future.

*

_  
But don't hurry the journey at all.   
Better if it lasts for years,   
so you're old by the time you reach the island,   
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,   
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich._  
\- [Ithaka](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20456), C.P. Cavafy


End file.
